


Up Above, Down Below

by jawbonesandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawbonesandjumpers/pseuds/jawbonesandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hadn’t meant to. Didn’t. But he couldn’t help it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Above, Down Below

**Author's Note:**

> My second attempt at smut...  
> I made this one explicit since it's a bit dirtier than my first attempt.
> 
> Thanks for all the support on my last one, all of your comments and kudos make my day!

 

 

He hadn’t meant to.

 

Didn’t.

Couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t his fault.

He couldn’t control it.

His transport.

 

He hadn’t meant to dream of John. Didn’t mean to keep dreaming of him. Thinking of him.

Couldn’t help but watch him when he thought he wouldn’t notice.

It wasn’t his fault that John was so perfect. So pure and golden.

He couldn’t control his body’s reactions. Couldn’t control the heat, the fire that burned inside whenever John looked at him.

Smiled at him.

Yelled at him.

Laughed with him.

Touched him.

His rebellious body would run cold and then boiling hot every time. His knees would feel weak every time. His heart would flutter every time.

 

 

It was no different this time.

 

 

They had been on a case for the fourth day in a row. Had finally cornered the serial killer. Hadn’t expected the gun.

Before the killer could even place his finger on the trigger, John had pulled out his own gun and shot him in the leg. The killer had screamed and fell to the ground, but Sherlock had locked eyes with John instead of paying attention. Had given him an inappropriate, relieved smile. Had felt his heart seize when John gave him a radiant smile in return. Had thought about how every smile lit up John’s face like a brilliant, blinding star.

 

 

He hadn’t meant to. Didn’t.

 

 

He closed his eyes, pressed his cheek into the pillow. Took a deep breath, felt like he was drowning. He was. Or at least, he might as well be. Might as well be seawater in his lungs, it would better explain why he couldn’t breathe when he slid a hand down, down, _down_.

Pulled his pajamas down.

Pressed into the warmth below.

 

Fire.

 

It surged through every molecule in his body as he wrapped his own fingers around himself and thought of him. Of John. John’s hand. John’s smaller, sturdier, stronger hand. Callused hand, healing hand, killing hand.

Feeling him.

Touching him.

Loving him.

Like no one had ever done before.

 

 

He couldn’t help it.

 

 

He couldn’t hold in the gasp at the first squeeze. Barely bit his lip in time to hold in the moan. Couldn’t help but shiver when he – no, John – when _John_ rubbed the tip of his aching cock. Couldn’t stop from imagining it was John’s strong, broad chest he was pillowed against. It was John’s arm that was wrapped around him. It was John’s hand that was there, doing filthy things to him.

Running his finger along the slit.

Spreading the precome up and down thick veins.

Circling his fingers around and twisting.

 

 

It wasn’t his fault.

 

 

He closed his eyes and whined when fingers brushed against his bollocks. Squeezed and kneaded lightly, sending sparks up his spine.

Jolted when John pressed up underneath them.

Bent his spine and bit his lip to keep from begging.

_Please, John, please._

 

John’s thick finger went down, down, _down_.

Past his bollocks.

Past his perineum.

Into his most intimate place.

He had never allowed anyone. He would. God, he would. He would spread himself out on John’s bed in a heartbeat. Would hold himself open. Would let John touch him there.

Push his finger in.

His cock.  

His tongue.

 

Sherlock startled, gasped so loud it sent a thrill of being caught through him. He brought his free hand up to his mouth, licked at his thumb. Shoved it down to join his other hand.

 

 

He couldn’t control it.

 

 

He closed his eyes again.

Imagined John spreading his legs. Staring up at him with big, blue, adoring eyes.

_Brilliant. Beautiful. God, Sherlock, you’re so perfect. You’re so gorgeous._

John held his thighs and leaned in. Breathed on his skin and made the hairs stand on end. Kissed his way down, down, _down_.

Sherlock whined again, throwing his head back at the first brush of John’s tongue. Lightly, up and down, back and forth. Making the ring of muscle flutter. Around and around until _in._ It made him blush from his temple to his chest, made him let out a choked cry.

It was filthy.

But so, so good.

He bucked against it, tried to pull it in deeper and deeper. Imagined the sounds John would make. His grunts as he held on to bony hips and shoved his tongue in as deep as it would go. His fingers pressing bruises into the pale flesh.

 

 

His transport was failing him.

 

 

He moaned and thrashed, pushing down on the thrusting, circling tongue. Squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pull air into his lungs as felt it all. Felt everything.

John’s nose pressed against his perineum. Stubble against his sensitive skin. Thick fingers pressing into his hips.

Heard John’s grunts. His muffled moans.

Smelled his sweat. His sex.

 

 

Betrayal.

 

 

He stroked himself, still bucking against the tongue in him. Pumped his hips into the tight circle of his fingers.

He wound tighter and tighter, flushed and sweat and keened and more, more, _more_.

 

His jaw dropped, his lungs seized to hold in the scream, his spine arched off the bed. _John_.

 

The bed creaked as he fell down with a long sigh.

The muscles in his legs jumped as he looked down at the semen streaked across his stomach.

He closed his eyes and imagined John pulling away from his body.

Licking his lips and giving his thighs a loving squeeze.

Smiling that same, radiant smile.

 

 

 

 

If only he knew John was upstairs imagining the same thing.


End file.
